I remember the bright blue-and-red lights that strained my eyes. The way that the ambulance sirens and her screams seemed like a vile, disgusting kind of music, perfectly in sync, like a song that you’d wish you’d never had to hear. A dark, moody melody of pain and suffering. All was lost. I knew that from the moment we had crashed.
I reached for her, I wanted to hold her hand, at least, for this one last time.
And I knew, I knew that it was the last. I couldn’t deny it. I knew it was the end because I couldn’t feel a thing. There wasn’t pain; there was simply numbness. And that’s what scared me first.
I didn’t understand. We’d done everything right. We didn’t drink anything stronger than Kool-Aid. We hadn’t been out past curfew. We were just one of the few teenaged couples that were doing everything right.
And what had it gotten us? We were dying. We were lying in rubble, in a wreck, dying together.
It’d be poetic, if it weren’t so screwed up.
But I’d always been one to recognize when a situation was useless. When I couldn’t do a thing about it. So I didn’t try. I just reached for her hand, and held it. She screamed. My hand closed around hers, and I squeezed lightly. I wanted to be her comfort. “It’s okay,” I whispered. The impact, her pain, the screams, I blocked them all out. I didn’t think she could hear me. I didn’t care. Maybe it was a comfort to myself.
All I had left was her hand. I held it, tight. We would be together. “It’s okay.” But it wasn’t. It never would be.